SANDRA

I dashed past the early morning Monday crease, past the outstretched hands of the crippled beggar on the sidewalk, past the bespectacled man thrusting a flyer in my face, yelling about some promo, past the revolving doors of the gigantic work of art that is the city wall. I dashed towards the liquor cabinet with such purpose like a camny rushing towards a deer caught in its headlights, with such speed I am certain I almost leave my problems behind.

Then I see her…

I see her smile

I see her…turn

I see it coming

How do they not feel it, these people hurrying past with shopping carts deeper than their pockets? How do they not see the world slowing down as if in sello, as she whips around, hair flying as if caught in a breeze, a lone finger rushing up to its rescue, the same finger that was stuck in my face in utter defiance? Can they not hear the hubble-bubble fade away, the silence weighing heavily like an obese man, like the powers that be turned down the volume in order to dance to the frantic beating of the heart? How can they not feel it?

The world stops. Hell freezes over. Our eyes meet

The sutures don’t stand a chance. My heart gives away afresh, the pieces raining down like confetti, revealing the gaping hole in the place she once held stead. I feel the blow as if knocks the air out of my lungs but I don’t move, I cannot. I silently pray for tears, hoping they could blur my vision, and I wouldn’t have to keep staring wide-eyed at her, at her face, the smile slowly disappearing, the funny white coat I once owned (and still loved) hugging her lean frame, the bracelet on her wrist, an exact copy of the one currently cutting into my tightly clenched fist.

They come hard and fast in torrents, threatening to wash away the remaining dignity. I had managed to salvage. I turn away as the first teardrop break free, and in the reflection in the glass door, I can still see her standing, her pained expression mirroring mine. I can see him reaching out to her, handkerchief at the ready, pulling her away, just as he pulled us apart. I can see him standing there, in his immaculate clothes, and expensive shoes, a serpent dressed as man.

How could you let him come between us? How could you choose him over me? How did it get this bad? How can I put it all behind, when the person who cut me is standing right in front of me? How can I move on with my life, when I am here bleeding to death?